


Muses and Virtuosos

by jemejem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Band Camp, Because I'll Turn It Into A Shitty AU, Jazz Music vs Classical Music, M/M, Music, Palmetto Music Program, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, like music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemejem/pseuds/jemejem
Summary: Andrew’s lot are jazz musicians. Neil’s a classical pianist, with a few secrets up his sleeve.(inspired by the bee movie meme, duh)





	1. Act 1: Time Signature 1, Time Signature 2

Neil honestly hadn’t expected much from this entire extravaganza, and yet, here he was. 

Palmetto’s music program, whilst largely unknown, was highly regarded. He knew that it was tempting fate to step within this hall, but he couldn’t help himself. His father had passed a while ago, now, his mother’s murder years before that. His uncle, whilst distant, was rather insistent on his auditions. He’d sent Neil lists of various universities, with programs and courses and scholarships. 

“Not that you need a scholarship, Neil.” He’d amended. “I’m perfectly happy to help you out, with whatever funding you need. But it’d be rather gratifying, don’t you think?” 

Gratifying. Sure. 

The Foxhall is an enormous performing space, the walls insulated for perfect acoustics, with the suave architecture wood sweeping towards the stage and the auditorium’s seats alternating between white and orange. 

He felt very small, here.   
There were only two sitting in the audience, heads bent toward one another as pens scratched against paper. Neil couldn’t see any other students, lining up to audition, but he attributed it to the fact that he was a little late. 

Okay. Half an hour late. But, truthfully, he’d been here on time. It was just his nervousness, preventing him from stepping inside the hall. 

When they heard the door clang shut behind him, they turned to look. Abby Winfried was a young woman, with blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head, and a kind smile. It balanced David Wymack’s gruff manner, Palmetto’s creative director sparing no time for niceties. 

“Neil Josten. Kind of you to give us a lunch break.” 

Neil tried to apologise, but was confronted by Wymack’s palm. 

“Just get up there. Show me what you’ve got.”

Neil’s heart hammered, and he sat down in front of the piano. Someone walked on stage to help him turn the pages of his music, but his concentration had whittled down his peripheral to his hands, and the keyboard. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Wymack suggested. 

Neil closed his eyes. Then he played. 

*

“This place is cute,” Danielle Wilds said, looking around approvingly. “You sure you don’t want to bunk in with me and the others? We’ve got a pretty nice couch.” 

Neil understood why she offered. The place he’d grabbed, this late into the summer break, was barely a studio. His bed, thankfully, was lofted, giving him space for a desk—or, his mother’s upright piano. His kitchenette was functional, if tiny, and his bathroom had no sink. His new beanbag — a housewarming gift from Dan and Matt — sat in front of the small television. 

“I’ve never had my own place before.” He said, with a shrug. “It’ll be good.” He’d lived in the haunted Baltimore halls with his uncle after his father’s timely demise.

She smiled at him again, with this look of pride that he just didn’t understand. They barely knew each other. When he’d finished his audition, all the Fox musicians crept out of their hiding places to appraise the new talent. Even Kevin Day, once a Evermore-worthy musician, and Andrew Minyard, who had turned down Juliard and Evermore and countless other scholarships, were quietened. 

“Welcome to the Foxes, Neil.” Wymack said, without hesitation. 

Now he was here, in a tiny studio near Palmetto campus, a week after his audition. It’d taken that long to have the piano moved down here from Baltimore: The rest of it he left behind. He wanted nothing of his father’s, or the life that once confined him to the spaces within the Wesninski manor. 

“I’d offer to bring everyone around to throw a house-warmer, but you practically don’t fit as it is, short-pint.” She laughed, pulling him under her wing. “Come on, grab your keys. We’re all going out.”

‘Going out’ consisted of the lot of them — Dan, Matt, Renee, Allison and Seth — heading to a diner called Sweeties, where the other half of the Foxes would jam regularly. Neil watched as Kevin improvised on the trumpet and the sax, as Nicky laughed along with his double bass’ walking baseline and Aaron tapped out a swingbeat. Andrew sat behind the keyboard whilst the lid was still shut and gazed out into nothingness. 

Andrew Minyard was something incomprehensible. Neil would have willingly given himself up into his father’s clutches if it meant he could play like Andrew did. He’d seen videos: The man, hopped up on those court-mandated drugs, plays 7th chords and 9th chords like he had twenty fingers rather than ten. It was mesmerising. 

Now he refused to play, fucking Kevin over probably being the most amusing moment of his day. Neil looked away, back to the group he was squished into a booth with. 

This lot were classical musicians. It created a large divide between the groups, even though Neil thought that was ridiculous. Matt on the cello, Seth on the viola and Allison on the violin needed a double bass to make up a full quartet, but Nicky wasn’t allowed to play with them. Renee was incredibly well-versed on the flute and clarinet, Dan on the trombone and euphonium, but Kevin refused to consider either of them. The ten of them would had made a wondrous symphony, and for a moment Neil mourned what the Foxes could have looked like. 

But only for a moment. 

“Josten.” 

As Neil exited the diner, he glanced across to where his name was called. The others hesitated as they saw who had asked for him, but he waved off their concerns, tracking over to Andrew where he smoked lazily, leant against the brick wall of the shitty diner. 

“I’d ask who the fuck you think you are, waltzing in like this, but that presumes I care.” He let the smoke circulate in the air between them. “What do you want with Kevin?”

Neil made a muffled noise. “What?”

“Nathaniel Wesninski, only ten years old when his mother pried the biggest opportunity — and honour — from his hands, before disappearing off the face of the earth with him.” He leaned forward. “Now he appears, in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, winning everyone’s hearts with his pretty, little classics. I won’t say it again. What do you want with Kevin?”

Neil had been expecting one of the musicians to find out about his chequered past, seeing as it was freely available through the internet. He’d hoped his name change would have given him a little longer to assimilate into his new life, with this scholarship and place within an ensemble, but he had never been a lucky man. “He’s the only person I had nothing against.”

Andrew’s eyebrow rose. 

“The Moriyama family, crime lords, the lot of them.” Neil shrugged. “This is news to no one, seeing as they were shut down last year with the help of some vital inside information. Everyone I’d ever known was dead or jailed. Except Kevin. Besides,” He hesitated. “It’d always been my dream to play with Kevin, ever since I was young.” 

“Pathetic.” Andrew decided. “Do you play jazz?”

Neil shook his head. “No—not really.”

The look he was served was imploring. Neil took the cigarette from between Andrew’s fingers to hold it by his jaw, seeing his mother’s angered grimace, the clenching of her fists as she demanded he practise once more. He remembered singing, gently, quietly, so as to not disturb his father in fear of being caught. 

“You’re coming out with us to Colombia on Friday.” It was currently Sunday. “You don’t get a choice in the matter. I’ll be outside your place at seven.”

Neil watched the man snatch the cigarette from Neil’s unresisting fingers, stalking off with a hostile curl to his shoulders. He realised no one had waited for him, and that he had no idea how to get back to his flat from Sweeties. With a sigh, he set off. 

*

“You could have called! We were only, like, five minutes away.” Matt frowned like a sad puppy, his enormous hands on Neil’s shoulders. “Did you seriously walk all the way home?”

“I like walking.” Neil said, shrugging off Matt’s hands. “It was fine.”

“Sure, sure.” Dan laughed. “What did Andrew want, anyway?”

Neil wasn’t sure how to interpret Andrew’s behaviour, seeing as it was both threatening and welcoming. Did the others also get to go out on Friday? He didn’t want to be completely stranded, having yet to truly talk to any of Andrew’s lot yet. 

“He asked me out on Friday.” 

That caught the attention of even Allison and Seth, who were lounging together and watching television. Renee was absent, but Allison pulled out her phone immediately, no doubt to text her. 

Dan looked at Neil like he was an alien. “No way. No, you’re not going.”  
“Why?” Neil asked.   
“I can’t believe he’s still scheming like this.” Seth said. “I thought once he’d gotten off those god-awful drugs he’d stop fucking with everyone’s heads.”

“What’s in Colombia?” Neil had to raise his voice to be heard over the growing cacophony. 

“I’ll go to their place, now.” Matt said, gritting his teeth. “This is just excessive.”

“No,” Neil spread out his hands, before Matt could run out of his own apartment and no doubt get himself skinned. “No. I can handle him. Just leave it.” 

Matt looked at him with a pained expression. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” Neil insisted. “I’ll call you if there’s a problem, okay? Promise.” 

They all looked at one another, hesitating for a moment. Matt held out his hand for Neil to shake. “Promise? As soon as anything sketchy happens?” 

Neil found himself enveloped into a hug, when he went to shake Matt’s offered hand. “Yes, Matt. I promise.”

How these people had grown so attached to him in just over a week was completely beyond comprehension. Neil took his leave 20 minutes later, and spent the walk home contemplating the strange stratification of the Fox musicians. 

*

Neil had never been dressed like this. 

When he was little, his mother would dress him in button-downs and little pairs of black slacks, for his regular performances. Often, he would dress jut as smartly to dine with his father and his father’s lackeys, as they made appropriate business exchanges and discussed plans and regimes. 

His father had been a grotesque, psychopath of a man, Kengo Moriyama’s dirty worker and most trusted ally. Neil had watched him carve up innocent men and women on numerous occasions, and taught not to question any of Nathan Wesninski’s actions. Keep practising, his mother had urged, even though practising was awful when trying to mask the screams from the basement. 

He had spent the years between turning 10 and turning 17 running from his father, his mother dragging him across 22 cities in multiple countries, never settling and always keeping one eye open. His mother was murdered after his 17th birthday in Seattle, and he’d meandered his way across the country until he’d found himself in FBI custody. He’d exchanged his protection and a clean record in exchange for information. It was enough to get his father incarcerated (which ultimately lead to his death), and regardless of whether or not Neil had known about the Moriyamas, the Japanese yakuza had placed too many of their eggs in the Wesninski basket, resulting in the degradation of their entire operation. 

Not many were pleased with Neil. The FBI waited three years to tell Stuart Hatford that his sister was dead but his nephew was alive, when they were sure that Neil would no longer be under so much of a threat. Then they’d thrown the Wesninski son out into the wider world, with a new name and absolutely no clue as to what he was going to do with himself. 

And yet, here he was. Standing in his bathroom, looking at the black shirt that clung to him like a second skin. His scars were most certainly recognisable through the thin fabric, even if the mesh was far too tightly woven to see anything. It didn’t matter: The scars down his arms and across his face were impossible to hide. In his father’s last attempt to silence his son for good, he’d given up caring about others recognising the knife work across visible skin. Neil wore these scars, not out of pride, but out of spite. 

There was a banging on his bathroom door, and so Neil collected his things and hurried out. 

Nicky whistled lowly, an appreciative glance scouring over Neil slowly. “I’m so glad Andrew’s letting us talk to you. I’ve been itching to ask about those cheekbones all week.”

Neil only gave him a perplexed look, then said “I don’t swing.” to which Nicky answered with a laugh and lead him out of the apartment. 

They stopped at Sweeties, the Fox musicians’ favourite diner, first. Neil watched as Andrew sourced a mysterious powder from a kitchen boy, hidden between napkins. Like this, Andrew looked dangerous. He had a shirt similar to Neil’s own, but it was sleeveless and exposed his ribs. His trousers were heavy with zips and chains, and his boots were just as intense, with a metal capped toe.   
They ate ice cream quickly but Neil barely touched his sorbet, passing it off to Kevin. On the walk back to Andrew’s sleek ride, Neil frowned at the powder sachets he’d stashed in one of his many pockets. “I thought only successful musicians fucked themselves up. All that fame, getting to their head.”

“Infamy works much the same.” Andrew said. Neil thought he’d seen the tick of an amused smile at the corner of Andrew’s mouth, but Andrew didn’t do amused. 

The club was a half hour away, and Neil kept keenly aware of his surroundings, as was habitual practise by now. They parked in a VIP section and were shuffled past a line of impatient partygoers who glared at them unappreciatively. Neil wasn’t sure. One whistled at them, to which Aaron flipped them off. 

Inside was claustrophobic, and Neil immediately hated it. Andrew tugged him away to get the drinks, so he found himself pressed against Andrew’s back as they made their way through an electric crowd. 

The bartender was familiar with Andrew, and asked for no identification, though Neil was pretty sure Andrew was already 21. Andrew paid the man no attention in favour of Neil, crowding him against the bar. 

“Truth.” He said. “I was going to drug you to figure out if you’re a threat. Make the wrong move, and I won’t hesitate.”

Neil looked at him. “Showing your hand, this early?”

Andrew only served him a flat look. 

Neil shrugged. “Truth. I would never have accepted a drink from you, anyway. It wouldn’t have worked.”

“Oh, but I’ve got more than a few people in my pocket.” Andrew leaned past him to get the tray. “You wouldn’t’ve had a clue.” 

Neil bared his teeth. “I hate you.” 

“Feeling’s mutual.” If Andrew was taken off guard by Neil’s antagonism, he didn’t show it. Neil Josten’s exterior was quiet and unassuming, the safest person to project. But Neil couldn’t smother that fuming spark within his chest for long, not if he was being asked to become a real person. Making connections, staying in one place, with one name and one purpose. He’d never thought he’d see the day. 

Neil didn’t drink for the rest of the evening, despite Andrew rolling his eyes and insisting that he had no need to incapacitate him, not when Neil wasn’t actively hiding anything, and that his intentions with Kevin were cleared up. 

Neil wanted to go home, but found himself crashing on the couch of the cousin’s second place in Colombia. A parting gift from Nicky’s parents, he’d said. He had been unable to sleep, not with so many weak points throughout the home. Windows, doors — how was he supposed to know whether or not they were locked?

Instead, he sat himself down at the upright in the corner of the room, assuming the others were far too drunk to hear him play. He warmed up with Hanon and scales, his eyes aching with exhaustion but his hands anxious to practise. He played the Paganini variations he knew off by heart — 18th, 2nd, 24th — and some of Chopan’s nocturnes, including C-minor and e-flat-major. 

He always lost himself in playing, so he hadn’t noticed that someone had crept down the stairs to watch. When he paused to rub his hands ten minutes later, said person drew up another chair beside him. 

Neil watched Andrew play Claire de Lune with perfect accuracy, if a little bit rhythmically lax. It had been one of his favourite lullabies as a child, and he felt himself being lulled into a strange sense of security as Andrew played. 

“I thought all jazz musicians had pious sticks up their asses and refused to play anything but,” Neil yawned. 

Andrew rolled his eyes, and began playing a familiar set of chords. It was dream a little dream of me, from one of Mary Hatford’s favourite romcoms. French Kiss. Neil hummed along with the tune, remembering every turn and melisma from when his mother would sing it absently as they drove across the German countryside. 

When Andrew looked at him curiously, he flushed. “Mom liked jazz.” 

“Sing it properly.” Andrew said, voice roughed by sleep. 

Neil’s own voice was weak with both exhaustion and lack of refinement, and his confidence flagged with every shaky note he sung. Andrew didn’t seem to care, continuing to play as long as Neil sung. 

“You’re wasting yourself on the piano.” Andrew stood up sharply. “Come on.”

“Where are you going?”

Andrew looked around the living room. “You won’t be able to sleep in here, rabbit.”

“What makes you think that I’ll be able to sleep easier around you?” Neil fired, still following Andrew up the stairs. 

“I have no reason to hurt you.” Andrew said. “You’re paranoid, you’re obsessive, you’re lonely. But you’re not dangerous.” 

Neil did not like this psychoanalysis of himself, and burrowed beneath the covers of this borrowed bed before he could overthink it. Sleep didn’t come easily, but it did come eventually, in nightmarish fits. In his dreams, Neil was singing for thousands but his vocal chords had been cut, by the Butcher’s favourite cleaver, and he couldn’t even scream. 

When he woke, sweating, Andrew merely gazed at him from his armchair, reading something Neil didn’t recognise. Embarrassed, he sunk lower within the sheets. 

They smelled like lavender. He closed his eyes and willed himself into a dreamless state.

*

“A band camp.” Neil said flatly. 

“Well, sure.” Nicky laughed. “You can call it that.”

Neil was only just hearing of this recital week, where many university music programs collaborated and spent the week together, in various workshops and performances. Sometimes music companies tagged along to see the fresh meat, to pick out the best contenders for their symphonies and soloists. 

Most of the Foxes were rather ecstatic. They’d grown stronger both as individual musicians and as a collective, which gave them an edge. No one knew about Palmetto State, and these fractured musicians were often viewed as a joke by those who did. 

Neil, two months into the program, was only just well-versed on the stories of each of his fellow musicians. Kevin had been accused of stealing and destroying Riko’s Stradivarius violin, forcing his resignation from Evermore and his subsequent transfer to Palmetto, where his father was situated. Kevin, shockingly, did have footage of Riko’s destructive rage, but was too petrified to put it forward as evidence. Nicky’s parentage had rejected his homosexuality and his German boyfriend, Erik, and Aaron was tagging along, having escaped his mother’s neglect and consequent drug abuse. Andrew tolerated Renee because she had been a messenger girl for Detroit gangs: Andrew had fucked Matt up a year ago and had him sent for rehab, with Randy Boyd’s own blessing, so that he wouldn’t lead Aaron astray. Dan had started with absolutely nothing, living in a trailer with her aunt and new-born cousin, but now she was leading Palmetto Music as symphony orchestrator, and practising conductor. Seth, in a similar position to Matt’s, was still working through his shit. 

And Allison, perplexingly enough, had rejected her parents’ plans for her inheritance of their company and estates, opting to play the violin instead. Most parents would be most pleased. Something about the way Allison regarded her own family suggested there was something more toxic than a daughter led astray. 

Then there was Neil. Once he had voiced his own familial relations, in the warm and familiar booth at Sweeties’ diner, the Fox musicians had clung tighter to him than before. He’d expected their scorn, seeing as his father was a literal serial killer, but they only celebrated his honesty and dragged him along to as many outings as they could manage. 

Neil, whilst in with Andrew’s crew, was being clutched onto by Dan and her fellow classic musicians. “Keep one foot up here with us, or they’ll drag you into the ditch.” She urged. “I want to bring this group together, don’t you?”

Neil had nodded, whilst still unsure of what he was really getting himself into. 

Being a part of both circles mean heading to the gym with Matt and Seth in the mornings, after only a few hours of rest from arriving home after night practises with Kevin. It meant helping Renee tune her flute and clari, sitting side-by-side with Andrew at Palmetto’s gorgeous, ivory-key grand piano in the auditorium. It meant lunchtimes with Nicky, studying with the girls, being aptly ignored by Aaron and being carefully watched by Andrew almost constantly. 

Sometimes, Andrew would appear at Neil’s flat, just to watch him play in silence. It was unnerving as much as it was exhilarating. 

Sometimes, Andrew would send him music to learn, and he would play, and Neil would sing. Then they’d smoke after, though Neil never truly smoked: He let the smell remind him of his mother, and watched the way the opaque tendrils curled around Andrew’s hand. 

“Does Kevin know you practise with me?” Neil asked one evening. 

“Don’t ask stupid things.”

That meant no. A wise decision. Kevin would go insane if he knew Andrew was practising willingly, outside of scheduled sessions and performances. 

“Why me, then?” He pressed. 

Andrew simply served him a flat look. 

As this _recital week _drew closer, the Fox musicians upped their antics. They expanded their repertoires, practising almost constantly. There was still a major divide between the two halves, but Renee and Neil had quietly set themselves the task of loosening Andrew’s iron grip upon his family.  
October came, and presented Neil with an opportunity. __

__“You should invite the others to Eden’s. For the Halloween party.” He offered, sitting in the wings with Andrew at his side. Kevin was currently harping at Aaron for his timpani technique, the others watching in apprehensive silence._ _

__“Why should I do anything that you ask me?” Andrew replied, petulant._ _

__Neil shrugged. “Might be fun.”_ _

__Andrew considered him, only for a moment. “Does the FBI know you still dye your hair, and wear coloured contacts?”_ _

__Neil grimaced. “Sort of. It’s more an aesthetic, rather than anything else.”_ _

__“Your aesthetic is abysmal.” Andrew said flatly. He paused. “Go back to your natural colouring, and I’ll consider it.”_ _

__Neil felt that like a jolt to his spine. “What?”_ _

__“You’re still hiding away from your past, looking like this.” Andrew tapped out a cigarette, getting to his feet to go smoke out back. “I won’t protect a coward.”_ _

__“You protect Kevin.” Neil said, weakly._ _

__Andrew rose up a single eyebrow. “His threats aren’t ghosts.”_ _

__Neil didn’t say anything and Andrew walked away, cigarette already lit, satisfied with silencing Neil’s smart mouth._ _

__Eventually, closer to Halloween, Neil had approached Allison with his odd request, that gave way to an ever odder opportunity._ _

__“So you’re telling me,” Allison said. “That Andrew Minyard will take us all out clubbing if you dye your hair back to your natural colour?”_ _

__Neil shrugged. “Apparently so.”_ _

__Dan and Allison grinned at one another, about something that Neil had absolutely no clue about. Renee stayed back, a quiet, omnipotent presence as ever, but there was something knowing in her eye._ _

__“Absolutely, I’m in.” Allison said, ferociously. “Let’s go.”_ _

__*_ _

__Neil was dressed in a hideous cow-boy outfit, of which, to his pleasant surprise, had a hat that masked the new auburn curls. Much to his chagrin, the whole outfit was completely ridiculous and attention drawing, not to mention, most of the group came matching. Allison had enormous, heeled cowgirl boots and wore only a vest and a leather skirt, her hair in matching braids. Andrew wore all black, opting only for the hat and a fake, cross-body pistol holster. Neil thought that was unfair, but he supposed that everything was on Andrew’s terms, including costumes._ _

__They were all careening from tipsy to wasted, Neil quietly sipping on his soda next to Renee. Andrew had handed both him and Renee unopened cans — a symbol of their unspoken truce, Neil supposed — and was sitting by Renee’s other side._ _

__The girl looked fondly on her dancing friends, tapping out a rhythm on the side of her can._ _

__“Will Evermore be at this recital?” Neil asked, grateful that the music was far enough that he didn’t have to yell. Andrew lifted his chin, acknowledging he was listening. “I’m not sure if Riko will remember me. I hope that he doesn’t.”_ _

__“I’m sure he’ll be more interested in Kevin.” Renee reflected. “He’s been scheming to have Kevin under his control once more. Jean has told me about his illusions of grandeur.”_ _

__Jean Moreau. Neil didn’t realise Renee knew him personally. “Do you talk with him?”_ _

__“Oh, sometimes.” She smiled. “I helped his escape from Evermore. He’s been with the Trojans in California for a while now. We’re all reconvening in Virginia in a few weeks: I’m sure it will be rather chaotic.”_ _

__Neil worried at his lower lip. “I am not good enough to perform with you all. Not in front of so many, not at such a crucial moment.”_ _

__“Neil, you are one of our most dedicated musicians.” Renee frowned. “You will be just fine.”_ _

__He made a frustrated gesture. “I try and implement Kevin’s practise regimes and his techniques and the hours he puts in, but it just doesn’t work. I’ve been slaving over the same pieces for weeks, now.”_ _

__“So forget them.” Andrew said._ _

__Neil looked at him, the blonde hair illuminated purple and green in the club’s erratic lighting. When Neil said nothing, Andrew continued._ _

__“He’s an idiot, who practises obsessively, and does 100 repetitions to ensure something’s perfect. You can’t play like that. The piece reflects your state, so repeating it over and over is useless. It’ll never be the same for you, so stop trying to embody Kevin’s stupid antics.”_ _

__“I think Andrew means you’re very expressive, and you thrive in performance.” Renee aided. “Kevin’s very analytical, and his process is what makes him a good musician. You’re not the same type of player, and that’s okay.”_ _

__Neil hid himself behind his soda to contemplate it. When he blacked out in a performance, he let his fingers carry him, letting the music ease him into a trance-like state. Renee was right. He would never be as mathematical, as calculating, as Kevin was. He just had to play the way he felt was right._ _

__“Okay.” He said._ _

__“Yeah?” Renee smiled._ _

__He nodded. Renee gave him a one-armed squeeze. Andrew sipped at his whisky, and ignored him for the rest of the night._ _


	2. Act 1: Dal Segno al Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's send a bunch of angsty young adults to band camp? also, i GET that it's weirdly condensed into a week, but just,,,,humour me. 
> 
> tw!!!! mentions of Proust's abuse, Andrew's previous abuse, Riko hurting Neil, all canon-typical stuff (this is basically the reason why it's rated teen+up)

**_day 1_ **

Neil packed for the recital week methodically and carefully, as he always had. It only dawned on him that he’d let his friends indulge him when he had multiple things he couldn’t fit into his duffel, of which would have to stay here at his flat whilst he spent the week away. It was a strange moment, in which he panicked only mildly, but he simply folded up his coolest shirts and put them away. 

Nicky had bought him a new coat with Allison in tow, upon seeing his thread-bare monster of a jacket. He’d bought Andrew the same thing, as an early Christmas present, seeing as it’d be necessary for the Virginia winter. Neil slipped the jacket on and appreciated its warmth, the sleek inner lining and useful amount of pockets. Carefully, he folded his old jacket, checked all the pockets for belongings, and chucked it in the bin. On the way out of his flat he gave everything a once over, turning all the lights off and locking the door behind him in. 

Everyone was gathered outside the Foxhall by the time he had arrived, greeting him enthusiastically. There was a universal cheer as an enormous eyesore careened around the corner: The coach was orange and white, with fox-paws littered across it. When Wymack and Abby hopped out after parking, they acknowledged the musicians’ dubious looks. 

“Borrowed it from the sporting programs.” Wymack explained, opening the coach’s underbelly. “We’ve gotta take the Vixens too, mind you.”

Neil had only really mixed with the Palmetto performing arts students once, when herding his friends home from a drunken tirade. They were a rambunctious lot, and by the looks of Nicky’s obvious nudge, Aaron fancied one of them. They were nicknamed the Vixens because of the no-good things they allegedly got up to, but one — her name had been Marissa, Neil remembered — said that was just a front. They were alright people, just like the Foxes were alright people. 

Neil didn’t really remember much: It’d been a chaotic night. 

They all loaded in, the classical musicians mingling easily with the performing arts students. Nicky and Aaron disappeared too, leaving Neil, Kevin and Andrew at the back. Kevin put in his ear phones to listen to his pieces. Neil wasn’t sure that Kevin had ever listened to music that wasn’t for a purely functional purpose in his life.

It left Andrew and Neil, tucked into the corner of the coach’s back row. 

Andrew buried himself down, a scarf tucked up over his mouth. He slid a slow gaze over Neil, who stared back openly. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice was muffled by his scarf. 

Neil smiled, just a little bit. He settled into his chair and pulled out his classwork, humming. When Andrew’s thumb dug into Neil’s bottom lip, he unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a grin. 

“Should have know you liked Coldplay.” Neil muttered. Then he sang properly, doodling on his worksheet pamphlets. Andrew watched him sing, and it was — well. Neil’s neck grew flushed, being scrutinised by Andrew so intently. 

It was something Neil had noticed, ever since abandoning the contacts and hair-dye a week ago, for the Halloween outing. 

His voice broke off mid-chorus. “Staring.” He said, softly. 

Andrew pushed away his cheek with a pointed finger. 

For a while, nothing was said. Neil, in their many midnight practises, had often instigated conversation, but at this point, Andrew was just as likely. 

Neil nudged his knee with his sock-clothed toe. “I’ve been through here.” He recognised the lift in Andrew’s chin that acknowledged he was listening.

Time passed quickly as they spoke.

*

The Evermore campus was set up perfectly for enormous congregations such as this one. There was a main auditorium, and the music hall, that held a dozen and a half smaller studio rooms. Communal spaces were large enough for all musicians to eat together, practise together and mingle. The twenty cabins were enough to accomodate anyone, and the serene forest that Evermore was situated within provided the perfect atmosphere for this event. 

The cabins were divided up between university factions rather than instruments, which was a relief to Neil. There were approximately 16 universities, which made up for almost 400 students, and he was at once mortified and excited by the prospect of a 400-student symphony, all playing at once. The different coaches pulled in, lining up with one another, and Wymack bustled his small team of virtuosos and the Vixens aside. 

“We’ll find our place.” He urged. “Before any of you cause trouble. You got me?” 

They all echoed _yes, sir_ as their conductor crossed his arms. 

They were rather far away from Evermore’s central campus, but with a large log cabin to fit them all in, it didn’t matter the distance. 

“I’m surprised that they didn’t put us closer to Evermore’s auditorium.” Allison said, bluntly. “What with wanting to keep an eye on Kevin, and everything.”

“What’s in the auditorium?” Neil asked, helping Matt lug his pillows and suitcases into the cabin. 

“The Raven’s Nest.” Dan supplied, with a dark look. “They all live there, underneath the auditorium. They live, breathe and consume music on a level that no one else can embody. Why do you think that they birth the most prodigal of musicians?”

Neil didn’t realise Evermore was that intense. It lodged a wad of cotton in his throat. 

Wymack gazed out across his Foxes. “Forget them. We’re here to show that we can hold our ground. If you let them get into your heads, kiss those opportunities for professional success goodbye. Now, go on. Get yourself into your cabin rooms. Foxes are taking downstairs, Vixens take the second floor.”

It presented itself a small problem, in that Neil had been living on his own for the past few months, but now he was presented with a choice, between two groups. Kevin and Andrew had chosen the room with two singles, and Matt, Nicky, Seth and Aaron had opted for the room with two doubles, whilst Renee, Allison and Dan were setting up mattresses in the spare studio, much to Allison’s horror. Matt and Seth’s room was already cramped enough as it was, and he wasn’t really wanting to encroach on the girls, but the last thing he really wanted was to subject himself to a week of Kevin’s anxious patterns. He nestled his bag in their room by a small couch, grabbing spare blankets and a pillow from the wardrobe and setting himself up. Andrew watched him without complaint, so Neil understood this was alright.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.” Andrew said. “Kevin will hardly be here. He’ll sleep in the practise room.”

Neil was unsure why his stomach knotted unto itself at the thought of it, the thought of sharing a bed with Andrew, but he shrugged. “I’ll fit on this couch better than he would.”

Once they had settled, the afternoon was spent with administration. Whilst there were plenty of pianist workshops (and Neil, quietly, wrote himself down for a jazz session on the Tuesday evening), he was required to join an ensemble. He glanced at Andrew, for he too would need to join an ensemble. The only other instrument Neil was remotely competent at was singing. To Neil’s surprise, Andrew joined him in the choir. 

Neil grinned at him. “Not worried you’ll get sick of me?”

“You’re practically a soprano.” Andrew muttered. “We’ll spend most of it on opposite sides of the room.”

Neil just laughed. 

Dinner was not as peaceful. Neil had yet to witness the Evermore musicians, as this campus was enormous and they had most likely been able to opt out of the organisational processes, being the orchestrators. When everyone was gathered in the auditorium, they put on a welcoming performance: It was dark and menacing and achingly beautiful, and Riko was standing at the front on the violin. Neil sometimes forgot that Kevin also played the violin, even more magnificently than Riko did, what with him opting for his brass and jazz instruments instead. 

It was both terrifying to watch, and inspiring. He wanted to be that good. He wanted to be better. 

Maybe Kevin saw the glint in Neil’s eye, because Kevin dragged Neil through winding corridors until they landed in a small, mirrored studio. He was pushed onto the piano stool and told to play until his fingers bled, or until he was the best there could ever be, whichever came first. 

Out of his saxophone case, he drew the lithe body of a gorgeous, incredibly expensive violin. Neil watched Kevin ready it under his chin. 

“Kevin,” He hesitated. 

Andrew was standing within the doorway of the sound-proofed studio, Wymack lurking just beyond him. When he shot Andrew a mildly panicked look, he simply rose an eyebrow. 

“Eighteenth variation.” Kevin demanded, pointing his bow at Neil. “Go.” 

Neil was too distracted to truly focus on what he was playing, but it didn’t matter: His hands carried him, and he watched at the second repetition of the melodic motif, as Kevin prepared. The tune was infinitely sweeter than Neil had ever heard, every note drawn long and smooth. This was hardly what Kevin was fully capable of, since Riko snapped his elbow in a fit of jealousy. This was only the beginning. 

When they played together, Neil could see it, them together on a stage, spotlight trained on them as they held the audience captivated, a string symphony behind them. 

Neil’s hands shook when he finished the piece, and Kevin slowly opened his eyes. 

“Finally.” He said. “Do you see where you are destined to be, now?”

Neil nodded, clutching his hands together. 

Kevin put away his violin and marched toward the exit. Andrew held out his hand for Neil to stop, as Kevin lead Wymack away. 

“Shouldn’t you be hounding after Kevin’s every movement? He relaxed against the piano as Andrew stepped closer. “I thought you’d be more vigilant with Riko in close vicinity.”

“Wymack will protect him.” Andrew said. “Move.” 

Neil stood by the piano as Andrew played, and it wasn’t jazz, nor was it classical: Neil barely recognised it, but Allison loved this artist, and often sang it with Renee. Neil knew the words, but only vaguely. It didn’t matter, because Andrew was trying to feed him pieces of the melody with his right hand. 

“I don’t need your help.” Neil said, petulant. 

“Didn’t think you’d know the song very well.” Andrew said, playing the scalic run in the bridge. “Prove it to me, then.” 

He knew that standing up straight was better for his voice, but he was mesmerised by the way Andrew played, leaning on his elbows instead. It was better this way: He saw every ritardando, estimated the length of every pause, and could anticipate any changes of tempo that Andrew threw at him. 

There was a foreign noise, midway through the final chorus which caused them both to pause and glance towards the ajar door. Whoever had been listening in vanished, because there was nothing to see, nor hear. Neil shrugged and Andrew kept playing, pulling back a few bars to start at the beginning of the final chorus.

When the song came to conclusion, Neil opened his eyes. He didn’t even remember closing them. 

Andrew was gazing at him in that way that had shivers flitting over his skin. When he stood, Neil didn’t move, letting his finger’s guide Neil’s chin. 

The kiss was surprisingly gentle, for Andrew’s characterised abrasiveness. It was only brief, Andrew throwing himself back before Neil could encourage him, or object, or even comprehend what the hell was happening. 

“And so the jazz pianist kissed the classical pianist.” Neil said, weakly. “I figured Romeo and Juliet would have been too cliched for you, but I suppose I’m wrong.” 

“Shut up.” Andrew snapped, hands wringing themselves out behind his back. 

“What’s wrong?” Neil asked. “Do you regret it? Because if you do, that’s fine. I can forget about it, if you want. I don’t regret it, mind you.” He added, remembering Andrew’s complicated relationship with physical contact and consent. “I’d do it again.”

“You don’t swing.” Andrew said. “And I don’t regret.”

He shrugged. “Things change.”

Andrew’s gaze was leaden once more. 

_“Smile, the worst is yet to come,”_ Neil sung softly, hoping that would ease some of the tension in Andrew’s shoulders, like he’d witnessed it doing before. _“…The future is forgiven, so smile…”_

Andrew rounded the piano to grab his wrists and shoved them against Neil’s pockets, so he obediently tucked them away. Once Andrew was sure Neil's hands were secure, he leaned up on his toes once more and Neil laughed into his kiss, finally understanding the flutter in his stomach. 

All those fruitless love songs made a little more sense with every moment that passed between them. It was a while later — Neil had absolutely no way to tell — when Andrew broke away from him. He gave Neil’s languid figure a once-over, before disappearing just as quickly as he’d appeared. 

Neil melted back onto the piano stool, and played the same one, six, four, one chord progression until he could barely keep his eyes open, trudging his way back to the cabin to fall asleep on his designated couch. 

Andrew, nor Kevin, were anywhere to be seen. 

*

_**day 2** _

The first time that Riko confronted Kevin was between the two morning seminars, but Andrew was too far away to intervene. Neil’s shoes were worn thin with time, so he slid in front of Kevin quite literally, just in time to prevent Riko from getting too close. If Riko touched Kevin, they’d be dealing with a dead body in no time. 

“Get out of my way,” Riko snapped. 

“Can’t, sorry.” Neil said, quickly. “Just occurred to me that I need Kevin for something absolutely urgent, which is completely dire to everything about my existence, and it has absolutely nothing to do with sorry pricks like you.” He felt Riko’s stony glare on Neil’s back as they walked away, Neil dragging a stumbling Kevin in his wake. 

“What in fresh fuck have you done?” Wymack demanded. “Kevin looks like he’s got a knife to his throat.”

“I just told Riko to piss off.” Neil said, mildly. “What, was I not meant to do that?”

Wymack rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus, and I have another five days of this shit. Alright, everyone, let’s get going.” 

The gaze Andrew offered Neil was neither thankful nor angered, so Neil let Kevin back into Andrew’s jurisdiction. Andrew passed Kevin onto Wymack, who would escort Kevin to brass ensembles, as Andrew followed Neil towards the choir’s designated studio. 

Before they could arrive, Neil was joined by Jeremy Know and Jean Moreau on either side: Glancing over to Andrew, he saw the hooded eyes gazing with disinterest as he flicked his fingers, allowing Neil to continue. 

“You’ve placed a target on yourself,” Jean said, frowning. “I won’t commend your idiocy, but I will warn you of Riko’s ire.”

“What Jean means, is,” Jeremy smiled imploringly at his fellow Trojan musician. “Whilst deflecting Riko away is totally badass and necessary, and Evermore musicians need to be knocked down a few pegs, you should be careful. Riko’s not exactly the paragon of mental stability, you know?”

“He got worse after Kevin left.” Jean said. “I was lucky to get out when I did. Don’t let him suck you into his schemes, alright?”

“He’s fine.” Andrew spooked both of the young men by appearing silently by Neil’s shoulder. “Aren’t you, Neil?”

“Always.” Neil muttered. 

“Well,” Jean said, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I hope he doesn’t cause too much trouble. I’ve got chamber ensemble.” He gestured down the opposite split in the concrete path. 

“Where are you two headed?” Jeremy asked, after he gave Jean a brief kiss on his cheek as a parting gift.

“Choir.” Neil shrugged. 

The man embodied sunshine as he laughed. “Yeah, that’s where most solo pianists end up. That, or in the percussion section. God knows why.” 

Despite his previous mentioned hope that Andrew wouldn’t have to deal with Neil, both Neil and Andrew were in the tenor section, Andrew bordering between tenor and bass: Neil got the chance to hear Andrew’s smooth baritone, which made him feel lighter than he wished it would. There was nothing that could come from this. Andrew dealt with physical attraction and nothing else, and Neil wouldn’t let himself grow close to anyone like that if he could help it. He still didn’t know how long this could last. 

They split up after choir practise without a word to one another, Andrew flipping his hood up. Neil held his hand out and saw tiny flecks of snow spiral down onto his palm. 

He was glad Nicky had bought him that new coat. 

He made his way to a practise session on composers from the 18th and 19th century, where soup was passed around to soothe cold fingers. There were dozens of other pianists, and they were all given a minute on the auditorium’s grand piano to play their favourite excerpt from classical piano compositions. Neil sat and thought of Andrew’s strong hands delicately playing Claire de Lune. When he finished, he stood quickly, confronted by the complete silence of his crowd. 

More confronting than their rapt attention was Riko Moriyama, leaning against the door frame of the auditorium, a malicious smile stretched across his lips. Neil sat and tried to concentrate throughout the session, but it was near impossible. When they were dismissed, he tried to sidestep the young man, but he was caught by the sleeve. Riko pulled him into a leisurely walk. 

“Any particular reason you’ve decided to finally come out of hiding, Nathaniel?”

Neil breathed out of his nose. “It’s Neil, now. And no. Don’t think so highly of yourself.”

Riko’s sickening grin twisted. “You cost my family everything.”

Neil shrugged. 

“You will not act so lightly around me.” Riko threatened. “You were meant to be an Evermore musician. You should have returned to your designated place years ago.”

“I’m Neil Josten, and I belong to no one.” He recited. “Leave me and the Foxes alone.”

Riko’s smile returned. “Oh, but perhaps you should know this about your little Minyard, Nathaniel. I’ve learned you’re becoming rather…fond, should I say.”

Neil stilled. Turned. Glared at Riko. “Fuck _off_ , Riko.”

“Did you know Andrew was a prime suspect in his foster-brother’s murder?” Riko asked lightly. “He went to juvie based on arson charges, but he was going to be charged with Drake Spear’s murder, if he hadn’t claimed self-defence. A little sickening, isn’t it? Little Andrew, barely 13, fucked by his foster brother every night for over a year.”

“How do you know this,” Neil whispered. 

“Oh, Andrew was sent to rehab to get off his court-mandated drugs, after almost bashing four men to death. There was a lovely doctor there, Proust I think his name was. Gained Andrew’s trust after a little while, wheedled the whole story out of him. Proust liked to do, how should I call it, re-enactment therapy? Shouldn’t have tried his luck with Andrew. I have tape recordings,” Riko held Neil’s chin. “Of Andrew murdering that doctor. They were destroyed — or so he thought. I have the last copy.”

“You sick fuck.” Neil spat. 

“You’ll come practise with me tomorrow.” Riko said, resuming his walk. “Or Andrew goes to prison. For life.” He grinned over his shoulder. “And who will be there to tie Kevin down, if you’re with me, and Andrew’s in jail?” 

Neil watched him walk away. 

*

_**day 3** _

“You alright, Neil?” Matt fuzzed his hair. 

“Fine.” Neil replied, lining up to get some toast and butter. He wasn’t able to stomach anything else at the thought of spending the day with Riko, doing god knows what. Would he be forced to transfer to Evermore? 

He ate silently, blotting out all Nicky’s hyperactive jabbering and Matt’s enthusiastic responses. No one tried to speak to him, even Kevin, who expressed his concern through glares instead. When it was time to split, Neil gave them all one last, appreciative glance. 

Andrew stood in front of him before he could split off and head to the auditorium, where Riko would meet him. “Spit it out, Josten.”

“I think I’m coming down with something,” He said, mustering his weariest smile. “Careful that you don’t get it too.”

He forced himself away before he could confess to Andrew. The man would undoubtedly be furious with Neil’s decision to remain quiet, and wouldn’t appreciate his sacrificial behaviour on Andrew’s behalf. 

It was a nice morning. Quiet, but for the bustling of excited music students, ready to tackle a new day. Tonight would begin the start of the knockouts, a competition where each school would present a musical item. Those who impressed the judges would proceed to the next round. Each round halved the number of contenders in half: By the end of the night, sixteen would become eight, whereas tomorrow, eight would become four, so on and so forth. The last night would have the finalists — usually Evermore, versus USC or Penn State musicians — compete for the crown. 

No one had won against Evermore, as of yet. 

“Took your time.” Riko said. His frame was hardly taller than Neil’s, which helped the illusion that Neil wasn’t scared. He wasn’t, really. He just couldn’t afford to fuck up. “This way.”

He remembered this studio from two evenings ago, where Kevin had played his violin again, and Andrew had kissed Neil, twice. Against this very piano. 

The locking of the studio’s door was menacing. Neil wished it didn’t have to be this room. He didn’t want those memories tainted. 

“You are your father’s son, I hope.” Riko grinned. “I always enjoy a challenge. Let’s see how long it takes for you to break, shall we?” 

Neil was asked to play every scale, flawlessly, and in succession. Kevin had tasked him with this exercise before, so it came easily, but as Riko barked out commands: “Slower! Faster! Staccato! Legato!” he felt his censure begin to fray. When his fingers slipped, Riko slammed the lid of the piano down, jamming his fingers. He flinched, yanking them free and holding them to his stomach. 

“Do not hurt him where it is visible, Riko.” Sounded a new voice, from across the studio. Neil craned around to look, and wished he hadn’t.

Tetsuji was withered and bitter, where he leaned on his cane. His beady eyes trained on Neil with a hunger than was almost indecipherable. 

“He must learn not to make mistakes.” Riko implored. “He has years of technique to catch up on. And I think that little monster’s getting to your head. You will never sing. The piano is where you are destined.”

“Fuck you.” Neil grit out from between clenched teeth. “You sadistic, narcissistic fuck. Kevin should have released that video years ago.” 

“Did you hear something?” Riko asked, cupping his ear. “Oh, yes. Police sirens, for that little monster of yours.” Tetsuji came to stand at Neil’s other side. “Again.”

When Neil hesitated, Tetsuji rapped him across the back with his cane. “Again.” 

Neil gently lifted the keyboard’s lid, and began again. 

*

When Neil stumbled back into his cabin, there was only one who had anticipated his return, and decided to stay. Wymack sat on the couch, pouring over music scores, when Neil fell into the room. 

He wasn’t badly hurt, just exhausted, but the bruises across his back felt suspiciously like welts. The rectangular tape he’d stolen was in his grasp, and with shaking hands, he brought it down on his knee. It cracked in two: He dropped it to the floor and jumped on it with all his strength, smashing the tape to absolute smithereens. 

Wymack just watched him from afar, eyes risen in request for an explanation. “Jean told Kevin. Who told me. Are you serious, Neil Josten?” 

“I didn’t sign with them.” Neil said, weakly. “They tried to make me. I didn’t.”

“I know.” He sighed, standing. “The others have gone to the knockouts.”

Neil winced. “I have to go—“

“Andrew agreed to stand in for you.” 

“He _what?”_

Wymack shrugged. “You tell me. Didn’t even have to ask: He stepped forward, muttered something to Kevin which caused him to go bone-white, and followed along with the classic musicians.” He gave Neil a once-over. “When you didn’t show up to your choir ensemble, Andrew called me. When you didn’t turn up to our practise, I knew his hunch was right. What if fuck’s name did you get yourself into?”

Neil stretched out his aching fingers. “I had to do it. He wanted to hurt Kevin, and Andrew, and I—“

“Alright, alright.” He guided Neil to the couch. “Abby’s up with them, so I’m going to stay here with you. Stay here.” He eyed Neil. “I mean it.”

Neil sagged against the couch, but it caused a throbbing pain to lance across his back, so he sat up again, swallowing against the bile in his throat. 

Wymack iced his bruises, providing soothing ointments and patching up the grazes and cuts. When he was finished, Neil pleaded with him to go watch the knockouts. With the excuse that Neil would most likely find a way to escape regardless, he walked slowly by Neil’s side until they reached the auditorium. 

As one of the smallest groups, the Fox musicians were nothing to behold. But when they took that stage, with a quiet but indisputable anger, it was palpable through the audience. Andrew played with vivaciousness, accompanying Matt, Seth and Allison, but most surprisingly, Nicky, who looked not a moment out of place with the rest of them. 

Neil felt his heart thud. He didn’t stay long after the Foxes’ performance, barely managing to stand upright as it was, but his fellow musician’s jubilant cries echoing around the cabin were enough to inform him correctly. 

He had already locked himself away, to avoid their harassment, but he heard the hush fall over them as Wymack explained what had happened, and Neil’s thanks for preventing it from escalating. 

Andrew came into their room, quietly pressing the door shut behind him. 

“Thank you,” Neil said. “You were amazing.”

“Kevin’s not staying here.” Andrew said, clearing his throat like it was the first thing he’d said to anyone all day. “I kicked him out.” He gestured at Neil’s shirt, who — with difficulty — peeled it over his head. Surveying the damage, he seemed to be satisfied with Wymack’s haphazard care. His fingers brushed over the old scars, on his arms, his shoulders, his cheeks. 

Neil felt momentarily dizzy with guilt, withholding his plans, withholding himself. He didn’t know what Andrew wanted, didn’t know what Andrew was thinking, but he really needed the stability that came with Andrew’s strong arms, the way his kisses blanked Neil’s constantly paranoid thoughts. 

“I’ve never lied to you, Andrew.” Neil promised, painstakingly. The truth, above all, was most important to Andrew. And Neil was right: He’d never truly lied to Andrew.

Andrew looked at him from underneath his lashes. “Lying by omission is still—“

“Lying. Yeah.” Neil sighed, wrapping his arms around the battered landscape that was his torso. “Well. Old habits die hard. But I’m trying.”

Andrew took his arms, looking at his swollen fingers and scarred wrists. Neil was suddenly in the car again, chained to the car door, as Lola pressed burns into his skin, and he was screaming, screaming — 

Andrew rose Neil’s hands to his jaw, resting them just over his neck. Neil watched how he stiffened under Neil’s light touch, so he rubbed circles into Andrew’s jaw with his thumb and gently sung Tears for Fears. _“Welcome to your life…there’s no turning back…”_

“I hate you.” Andrew growled. Neil grinned. 

“I know.” 

Neil didn’t even care how much it hurt when Andrew pressed him into the mattress, littering his bare torso with light kisses that were — dare he say it — gentle. Andrew was gentle. He was so fragile, Neil cradling him with fingertips on his jaw. No one saw this side of Andrew. He’d made sure of it, with years of violent outbursts and abrasiveness. But as he kissed along Neil’s jaw, up to his ear and down again, down his neck, down to the iron burn on Neil’s shoulder and across every risen bump, all Neil could think was _I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe._

It was a nice feeling. 

*

_**day 4** _

With Neil back amongst them, the Fox musicians returned with a renowned force that was difficult to replicate elsewhere. They skipped their separate sessions in favour of working together, and together they finally worked cohesively. 

Having gotten past the first round, they would need to put forward a different item. It was time for the jazz musicians to shine: Dan joined Kevin on the trombone and trumpet respectively: Renee, who’s enthusiasm made up for her lack of experience on the saxophone, chatted with Andrew about blues-chord improvisation. Nicky and Matt fragmented a walking baseline between the two of them, and in the background, Aaron was teach Seth different swing rhythms, with Seth’s newfound interest in percussion. 

“Just you and me, huh.” Allison glanced at Neil, whipping her blonde ponytail from side-to-side. “Come on. I want to talk.” 

Neil followed her, just outside of the small studio. It was busy outside, but only in the distance as people ran from session to seminar to tutor. Neil was glad to have this space with his Foxes instead. 

“Little birdie told me you like to sing with Andrew.” Allison said, sneaking him a smug grin at his aloofness. “I know all, Josten.”

“What are you suggesting?” He eyed her. 

“Let me coach you.” She said. “I was an innocent, little choir girl before any of this mess. If we get past this round, you and Minyard should do a little duet.” When he protested, she rolled her eyes. “Forget it, Josten. We all see how you moon over him. Wymack already agreed. All you have to do get Minyard on board.”

“I do not moon over him.” Neil said, cheeks warm. 

“Don’t you want to serenade your boy, in front of hundreds?” She teased. “I would have urged you away from him, but I suppose I see it now.”

Neil looked at her for an explanation. 

“He was positively fuming. We had to stop him from tearing into Jean — like physically, tearing into Jean. Then we had to stop him strangling Kevin. Then he threw us all off, breathed in and out once, and said he’d take your place in the knockouts. It was so bizarre.” She hummed. “Jazz musicians are something else, aren’t they.”

“Profound.” Neil snorted. “I—I’ll think about it. The singing.” 

She pinched his cheek with a scheming grin. “Sure you will.”

When she went inside once more, he slid onto the ground and kept his head between his knees. He thought about it. It’d be an enormous risk. He was an untrained, unprofessional vocalist at best. Andrew would most likely say no anyway. He wouldn’t have to sing tomorrow. 

“Neil,” Andrew said, the slightest tone of concern creeping into his voice. 

He looked up. “Hi.”

“Didn’t think I’d have to spell this out for you, but don’t fucking leave my line of sight.” He grabbed Neil by the chin. “Clear?”

Neil laughed weakly. “Clear. Allison told Wymack I’d sing with you, on the piano. For tomorrow’s knockout round. If we get through today.”

Andrew looked at him darkly. “You want to do that?”

Neil shrugged. “Riko said I would never be a vocalist. Spite’s a powerful thing.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Andrew muttered. “Fine. But I’m choosing the song.”

“Wait, seriously?” Neil let Andrew help him up, shaking out the aches and cricks in his muscles. “You’d play with me? You’d perform with me?”

“Yes,” He said, irritated. “Except now I wish I had just trapped you inside the body of that grand piano at Palmetto when I’d had the chance.”

Neil grinned, feeling his heart thrumming where it was confined within his chest. “Right. Of course.” 

The look Andrew served him was the flattest Neil’d ever received. He had to laugh. 

*

Dan held her fingers over her mouth as the judges for the second knockout round clambered onto the stage. 

“The four schools progressing to the third round: Evermore. USC. Penn State. Palmetto.” 

His fellow musicians were screaming, shaking one another with exhilaration. They’d never got this far before. Neil watched, proud, as he felt Riko’s glare on him. He let himself smile his father’s smile towards the young man, holding up his middle finger. 

Andrew took his wrist, and Neil thought he was pulling his hand down, but he held it there for a moment longer, so Riko could see them stand in solidarity. When Neil dropped his hand, Andrew’s fingers stayed looped around Neil’s wrist. 

Neil’s smile transformed into something kinder, something that was his own, as they walked away from the auditorium together. 

They had a duet to practise. 

*

_**day 5** _

Neil wouldn’t say he skipped out the cabin the next morning, but he all but fucking skipped out of the cabin the next morning. Andrew glared at him, unimpressed. 

“Please tell me that you got some sleep last night.” Kevin said, exasperated. 

“Why wouldn’t he have—“ Nicky’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you and Andrew actually—“

“Yep.” Neil popped the ‘p’. 

“And you didn’t tell me?” 

“Nope.”

“And he’s actually comfortable with—!”

“Yep.” 

Nicky threw up his hands. “I am _desperate_ for answers here! Won’t you tell me something? _Anything?”_

“Nope.” Neil said, almost cheerful, as he jogged ahead to catch up with Andrew. 

“Had your fun?” He said, dryly. 

“I may have a daily quota for messing with people.” Neil admitted.

“I can’t believe I did this to myself.” He muttered, dragging Neil by the shirt-sleeve. 

*

Neil held a microphone in his hands, staring out into the blackness that he assumed was the audience. 

“Neil.” Andrew said quietly, beneath the roaring din in Neil’s ears. 

He nodded, and Andrew began. 

_“And you give yourself away…And you give yourself away…”_

Andrew wasn’t smiling, but he was looking at Neil with perfect censure. 

_“I can’t live,”_ Neil gripped onto the edge of the piano. _“With or without you.”_

He didn’t even realise the song had finished, that the auditorium had burst into applause, not until Andrew had taken him by the arm and directed him to bow, as was conditional for all performers. He stumbled off stage, both nauseated and lightened. 

Riko was there, somehow, glaring at Neil with contempt that permeated through the air around him, like a noxious gas. 

“Fuck you, Riko.” Neil whispered, with a harsh grin. 

Andrew yanked him away, as he laughed at Riko’s spasming fists, his twitching jaw. 

“Incredible.” Neil said, brushing his fingers over Andrew’s hair once they’d broken free of the auditorium’s stifling atmosphere. “That was—“

“Shut up.” Andrew said, voice strained. 

Neil nodded, keeping his hands to himself. 

Together, they all sat and waited anxiously for the judge’s responses, having found the Foxes within the auditorium rather quickly. They were sat up the back, near the left exit. Matt beamed at him and ruffled his hair with pride. 

“The two schools competing in the final round. Evermore.” Whistles, applause, cheering. No one was surprised there. 

Neil’s heart fell. He wasn’t good enough to carry this team. It had been a stupid idea to put him forward as a soloist, even with Andrew up there—

“Palmetto.” The announcer finished, frown evident in her tone. 

The screaming was deafening. He was swept up into a plethora of hugs and affection, Andrew watching from a distance as Neil was showered with congratulations. 

“Kevin, you brilliant bastard!” Jeremy Knox crowed, accompanied with various Trojans. Neil didn’t recognise many, other than Jean, and perhaps two of the girls, Laila and Alvarez. “You deserve this.”

“Don’t let him steal what is yours.” Jean said, quiet and forever foreboding. 

“We’ll be rooting for you, tomorrow night.” Another Trojan said. “If there’s anyone who can take those sadistic fucks down, it’s you lot.”

“Foxes.” Jeremy shook his head. “Never met a more surprising bunch.”

In the safety of the cabin, Wymack let them let loose, sourcing bottles of cheap whisky from god-knows where. Neil and Kevin were the only ones barred from drinking: Renee, as usual, opted out. 

Aaron spent his evening glaring in Neil’s general direction. 

“The both of you are awful.” Nicky said, slurred. “Just fucking let it go. Aaron, go screw your little theatre girl. Andrew, stop hogging Neil for once.”

Andrew’s eye twitched, but Aaron nodded when he watched Andrew take Neil’s hand, disappearing to find his ‘theatre girl’. 

Nicky sighed theatrically. “Thank Jesus. Finally. I’m gonna call—“ He hiccuped. “Erik.”

Wymack sat on a kitchen stool and gazed over his drunken musicians, head resting in his hand. Abby set him a cup of coffee and retired to bed with a kiss on his cheek, but he insisted on staying up to keep them out of trouble. 

Kevin paced anxious grooves into the carpets of his, Neil’s and Andrew’s bedroom, fingers laced behind his head. 

“Kevin.” Andrew snapped. “Anxious energy either goes into practising or sleeping. Choose.”

Kevin served him a sour glare. “You don’t know—you don’t know what he’ll do. If we lose, we’ll lose _everything_. We’ve cost him so much as it is.”

“What more do you have to lose, Kevin?” Neil said, angered. “What is there that he hasn’t already taken from you?”

Kevin reached for him, but Andrew stood between the two of them before Kevin could grasp Neil by the neck. 

“Practising or sleeping.” Andrew reminded him. “Get out.” 

Kevin looked at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am serious. Get out of my sight.”

Kevin stormed out.

*

_**day 6** _

There was open hostility on the campus the next day in leading up to the final round. Those who’d rooted for other, previously successful schools scorned the Foxes and undermined their authenticity. Those who rooted for Evermore attacked the Foxes in every way they could, so long as they could get away with it. 

Neil ignored anyone who wasn’t Andrew, Wymack or Kevin. Even then, it was tempting to ignore Kevin. The man was absolutely head-over-heels with anxiety. He didn’t even notice his sort-of-girlfriend, Thea Muldani, appearing at the cabin’s door. He didn’t look at her until she was directly in front of him, holding his chin. 

“You show him.” She said, quietly. “You show him who’s number one. Then you’re going to release that footage of him and that stupid fucking violin, and you’re going to tear his throne to shreds. Got it?”

“I—“ He’d hesitated. 

_“Got it?”_ She snapped. 

He kissed her gently, and some of the brashness melted out of her in the simple gesture. He steeled her with his shoulder, foreheads bowed together. 

“Loud and clear.” He said.

She nodded. 

Neil looked away, walking out of the cabin’s main room. It was too intimate for him to see. Kevin vulnerable and open wasn’t something Neil wanted to remember, and yet there it was, clear as day. He flopped down onto his bed, the bruises having mostly healed at this point, fingers carrying out the music without an instrument in front of him. 

Another pair of hands caught his own, pulling him from his dazed state. Andrew’s hazel eyes peered down at him, measuring his anxiousness and overall stability. 

“I’m fine.” He said. 

Andrew narrowed his eyes. 

Neil tugged on their joined hands. “Have I ever lied to you before?” 

His response was an eyeroll. Neil let himself be pulled upright and lead into the shower, where it was easy to let every fear and worry wash away in Andrew’s careful grasp. 

*

Neil bounced on his toes as he waited side stage. Opposite, he could see Riko and his Evermore musicians leering, lurking, intimidating. 

They, being Riko and the entirety of their string orchestra, had perfected their rendition of Mendelssohn. Neil was entranced by their music, but it had instilled him with a spiteful rage. Riko wasn’t going to fuck him, nor the Foxes, over. Never again. 

Kevin help his saxophone case, within it, his handcrafted violin, perfectly moulded to fit his jaw and shoulder, the bow’s strings taut and polished.   
“This isn’t be-all-end-all.” Wymack reminded them. “It’s merely a representation of our dedication, our strength, as musicians and as a team. We’re behind you.” He gestured to the Foxes, who stood just behind him. “All of us. We already have so much that Evermore will never comprehend.”

“What’s the harm in taking one more thing from, them?” Nicky said, wryly.

Wymack rolled his eyes. “Tactful.”

“The sentiment is there.” Dan offered. 

“Kick ass!” Matt whooped. 

“You’ll do great.” Renee promised. Aaron shook Kevin’s hand, and Nicky hugged both of them.   
Andrew’s gaze was steadying enough: They didn’t need any words or gestures to solidify that. 

The auditorium was silent as they walked on stage: Neil position himself behind the piano as Kevin knelt down, placing his saxophone case on the ground. Popping the locks, he lifted the lid— 

And withdrew his violin. 

The crowd went berserk. 

Neil grinned, and readied himself to play. 

*

“I think it looks good there.” Dan rested her chin on top of Neil’s head as they looked at the trophy, sat on a display cabinet, front and centre. 

“Everyone’s acting like I won it on my own.” Neil said, sourly. “We’d have never gotten through the first two rounds without the whole ensemble.”

“Maybe,” Dan agreed. “But we would never have functioned as a holistic unit without you, either.”

Neil hummed. “We won.”

“Yeah, Neil.” Dan laughed, grabbing him by the shoulders to give him a little shake. “We won!”


	3. Act 3: Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> epilogue :) 
> 
> (I LOVE CLICHES)

“Riko’s jailed for extortion and grievous physical assault.” Kevin read out Wymack’s text. “Thirty-years, with a twenty year probation. No parole for two decades.”

“Good riddance.” Andrew said, around a mouthful of ice cream. He was sitting on Neil’s kitchen counter, eating ice cream by the pint. The sight made Neil smile until Andrew pointed a spoon at him in warning, to which he held up his hands and turned back to his music book. He’d been slaving over this composition for a few days now, unable to get it out of his head. 

“Shame he won’t die in there.” Neil added. “No one touches a Moriyama.”

“You thought that about your father. You thought he was untouchable.” Kevin said. “But he’s dead.” It sounded strangely melancholy, so Neil turned around to glare at him. 

Kevin gave him a pitying shrug. “He was my closest friend, once. I mean, _fuck_ him, really, but once upon a time…” He eyed the two of them, before launching to his feet and striding to Neil’s front door. “Well. I’m going to go rehearse. Coming with?” When Neil shook his head, he rolled his eyes. “Have fun without me, then.”

“We will.” Andrew promised. As soon as the door clicked shut, he was off the counter, abandoning his ice cream in the process. Neil followed his kiss eagerly, climbing up into the loft space and falling onto his new double-mattress.

It’d taken a bit of workshopping to figure out how to get a double bed into the space, but all it’d taken was a bit of loft-extension from Matt, creating a partial second floor, and bam: Double bed.

“You’re both tiny.” He grinned at Neil, once he’d finished it. “That’ll be plenty of room.”

“Fuck off, Matt.” Neil’d said decidedly, shooing him out of his flat and almost forgetting a thank you. 

Neil kissed down Andrew’s neck, who instinctively arched his head back. There was a loud thud, causing Neil to lean back, as Andrew went awfully still. Andrew opened his eyes to glare at Neil, who clasped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing when he realised Andrew had hit his head on the ceiling. 

“Don’t fucking laugh at me. This is your fault.” Andrew growled. 

“What, the fact I had a loft built so we could share a bed, or the fact that you have a really intense neck fetish?” Neil teased. “Because the way I see it, I was merely trying to indulge you. In _both_ scenarios.” 

“I fucking hate you.” Andrew grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head, smothering Neil’s laughter with a kiss. Neil grinned, nipping at Andrew’s bottom lip. 

_“Come on baby, let’s not fight. We’ll go dancing, everything’ll be alright…”_

“Don’t you dare serenade me with with _Wham!”_ Andrew said flatly. 

“My bad.” Neil chased him for a kiss, to which Andrew easily obliged. Hands held his waist as they were flipped over, Neil pressed against Andrew’s chest. Neil tried to keep the customary space between them, but Andrew pulled him down, hand trailing lazily up and down Neil’s spine. 

It’d only been a few months since the first time he had crowded Neil up against that piano, and the ease and comfort that Andrew expressed with Neil in moments like these brought teary-eyes that Neil thought only Hayden’s concertos would. 

When Andrew fell back against the pillow, Neil opened his eyes. The way Andrew gazed at him was unnerving. “‘ndrew?”

“I hate you.” He repeated. “Move in with me.”

Neil grinned. _“Wake me up, before you go-go…”_

“Never mind.” Andrew huffed. “Forget I said anything.”

“Hate you too, jazz boy.” Neil said cheerfully, letting Andrew roll on top of him with a choked laugh. The hands that pressed to the skin beneath his shirt were as gentle as the trills of Tchaikovsky, their hearts hammering as strongly as the march of the 1812 Overture, the kiss he pressed to Neil’s lips sweeter than a Mozart melody. 

And so, the jazz pianist fell in love with the classical pianist…


End file.
